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But soft! What light through yonder window breaks. How she leans cheek upon her hand. Oh if I were a glove upon that hand. That I might touch that cheek.
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a wingèd messenger of heaven Unto the white, upturnèd, wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.
My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
By whose direction found’st thou out this place?
By love, that first did prompt me to inquire. He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot. Yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.
What shall I swear by?
Do not swear at all. Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,Which is the god of my idolatry, And I’ll believe thee.
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